


Inspiration

by Verlaine



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: M/M, older guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-11
Updated: 2012-01-11
Packaged: 2017-10-29 09:08:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/318178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verlaine/pseuds/Verlaine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After all the years, Starsky is still Hutch's inspiration. And vice versa</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inspiration

**Author's Note:**

> originally published in the zine _The Perfect Couple_ , edited by Keri and Flamingo.

Hutch is drawin' me again. He thinks I haven't noticed that for the past fifteen minutes or so, instead of looking out at the lake, he's been sneaking little peeks over at me from behind his sunglasses, like I'm some badass he's keeping an eye on during a stakeout. And here's the tell: he's _very_ casually pulled up his knees a little so I can't get a good look at his sketchpad from where I'm lying unless I twist my neck way around.

I decide not to bother. I've got my blanket arranged just the way I like it and there's a semi-cool beer and some trail mix in reach. Got a good book to read—V. I. Warshawski's giving a fed the kind of lip that woulda done Hutch proud in the old days. All in all, I feel too comfortable to move, let alone argue with the blintz about lettin' me see something he'll show me in his own sweet time anyway.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I can smell pine, lots of it, with a tight, sharp edge of dry needles and earth underneath. It hasn't rained worth shit here all summer and most of northern Minnesota is one flipped cigarette butt away from a weinie roast. Weaving through the pine scent are little whiffs of herbal shampoo, sunscreen, and best of all, warm Hutchinson.

"What're you sniffing at? I told you there's no skunks up here." Hutch is doing his little impatient-amusement-with-the-greenhorn thing. I've been going along with his camping/hiking/nature stuff as long we've been together, but he still likes to think of me as a city boy spooked by squirrels. Well, okay, so I feel more comfortable when I can _see_ the wildlife that's rustling in the bushes, but it doesn't bother me much anymore.

Much.

I tilt my head back so I get an upside down view of him grinning at me.

"Just enjoyin' the fresh air," I tell him, and settle back. I take a swig of beer, nosh out a few peanuts, and go back to my book to see how Vic's going to handle the feds.

We hiked up here from the farmhouse at the crack of dawn to get the right angle of the sun out on Lake Superior. Hutch carried his little folding stool and easel and sketch-book and paint box; I had the food and drinks, and a blanket and a book for me. I tucked in Hutch's hat—I only asked him three times if he had it—and some sunscreen. Even though the morning air had a bite to it, by the time we got up here, we were both puffing and sweating. Hutch pulled out his pocket watch, did a double take, and then gave me a confused look.

"It didn't used to take anywhere near this long to get up here," he said.

I grinned at him. "Hey, we're sixty-five now, boy. We're lucky we made it up that last stretch at all. Geezerhood's right around the corner."

He rolled his eyes. "Starsk, as far as most of the population is concerned, geezerhood is _here_."

"Like we're not in better shape than most guys half our age." I'm still proud of myself; I got that whole sentence out without gasping for breath.

"Who's in better shape?" Hutch stretched his arms way back and took a deep breath. "But you're right. Nobody takes care of their bodies anymore. It's all fad diets and plastic surgery. Anybody who's over twenty better just start getting botox injections and making an appointment . . . ."

While Hutch grumbled away about ageism, I found a nice soft patch of moss and crowberry to spread out my blanket, and put the beer and lunch into the shade under a scrawny juniper bush. Most of the rant I tuned out, just paid enough attention to grunt in the right place now and then. It's not like he doesn't do it to me, if I start in on something he figures he's heard a few times too often.

The muttering gradually died away as he set up the easel and got his paint box unfolded. I could see the way his eyes kept drifting out to the lake, and I knew the artists' bug was biting bad. He kept looking back and forth from the water to the blue section in the box, and right on cue, I heard the mumbled, "Damn it, how can I ever get the right color mix with this?" When I slapped his hat on his head, he didn't even react.

The last couple of hours have been pretty quiet. The only human sounds have been pages turning, bottles opening and the occasional, "Wrong shade, damn it!" from Hutch. We're far enough above the lake that the sounds of the waves are only a silky-rough rumble in the background, like hearing a good car engine from far down the road. There's a flock of chickadees whistling and flirting around, and now and then a crow flies overhead and gives us a hard dry caw, just to show us we're the new kids on his block.

I keep checking out to make sure Hutch doesn't get burned—you'd think a country boy like him would have caught onto sunscreen sometime in sixty-five years, right? And a while ago I noticed he'd stopped looking at the lake and was looking at me.

Hutch has done dozens of pictures of me over the years: pen and ink, acrylics, pastels, watercolors, pencil sketches, you name it. I told him once if I kept all of them out, we could wallpaper the whole house with them. Sounds kinda soapy, but I've never been able to throw one away. Even the ones he pitches out, I rescue from the wastebasket if I find 'em. I have a box in my closet, and all of them are tucked away there.

There's a few special ones that I've framed and hung up. My favorite is the one of me and Ma on graduation day at the Academy. Ma looks so proud and happy, and me—well, let's just say I was one cocky kid and leave it at that. Ma had come out a couple of days before, and was staying with Aunt Rose. I think between the two of them they got every relative of mine in California out to the graduation.

Hutch's folks didn't show—big surprise there. And Vanessa had something more important to do.

I'd figured that was gonna happen, so I'd already told Ma I was gonna sneak Hutch off to have a drink after the ceremony, so he'd at least get some kind of a celebration. But the ladies ambushed us. As soon as I introduced him, Ma hugged him, and made a big fuss over him, thanked him for looking after her little boy at the academy—hah!—made him pose with me for a photograph and show off the certificate he got for top academic standing.

Then she and Aunt Rose dragged us both back to the house for dinner. Hutch tried to wiggle out of it, said he didn't want to intrude on the family.

"Ach!" said Ma. "You've been sleeping with Davey all these months, but sure you're family."

Hutch went beet red, and I just about busted a gut trying to keep from laughing all over. Ma's English always got a little confused when she was excited. See, back in those days we weren't sleeping together—or more like _all_ we were doing was sleeping. Hutch and Vanessa were still more or less married, but they weren't doing so hot. Hutch spent a lotta nights crashed out on a sleeping bag in my room at the dorm instead of going home and starting up the fighting again where they'd quit when he had to leave in the morning.

I think the whole California branch of the family was there for the party. Ma and Aunt Rose had spent the whole day before cooking: gefilte fish, potato latkes, spaetzle, pot roast, three vegetables, homemade apple pie, and cherry strudel. I hadn't realized until then how much I must've talked about Hutch, 'cause everybody acted like he was part of the family who just hadn't been around for a while. Hutch kept checking to see if I was still there, with this happy but kind of bewildered expression, like he wanted to make sure he still had an anchor in this tornado of Starskys.

When we took Ma to the train station at the end of the week, he gave her the picture. He must have done at least part of it at the party, and then got it framed and everything, though I can't figure where he got the time. Watching Hutch give my mother that little drawing reminded me of a puppy bringing over a slipper, not sure if he was gonna get petted or whacked on the rear with a newspaper. Ma burst out crying, and kept coming back to hug us both so much she almost missed her train.

Another picture I like, in a sad kind of way, is one Hutch did for me of Nicky the first time he came out to visit. I keep it to remind me of the good days, when Nicky was still my little brother, before he went off the rails, before—

Well, that's another story.

Some of the ones I like best he did for me after Gunther's hit. He'd come and sit with me in the hospital, and tell me all the stuff that was goin' on, and draw little cartoons to go with the stories. Dobey partnered him up with Joan Meredith for a while, and he'd draw Joan lookin' like a black superwoman, kicking bad guys' butts, making her gun look even bigger than the Magnum. There were times those visits felt like the only lifeline I had, and having that day's page of sketches taped up on the wall where I could see them kept me going when Hutch had to be on duty.

I'm a little surprised he's taking the time to draw me now, because if things turn out the way I think they will, this might be one of the last days we come up here. Hutch's mom isn't doing so great, and lately things have been pretty frosty with the rest of Hutch's family. See, Mrs. H. hasn't made any secret about what's in her will, and now that everybody can see the time's getting close, they're starting to take it personally.

Considering that all I got when Ma passed on was a couple of old photo albums and Pop's tie pin and cufflinks, I'm having a hard time understanding what's got everybody so pissed off. Mrs. H made sure the grandkids are set for life, Hutch's sister will get their parents' house, and the rest of the money is split right down the middle between Lillian and Hutch. The shit really hit the fan when they found out Hutch will get the old farmhouse, which everybody calls the cottage, and the couple of acres with it on the shore. Compared to the rest of the estate, it's peanuts, though I suppose they could get a nice chunk of change if they sold the land for condos or something.

As a cop, I've seen people do bad and crazy stuff for money all the time, so you'd think it wouldn't come as a surprise to me that Hutch's sister started talking about going to court the day we got here. I mean, Jesus, her mother's sick and there's not much time left, we all know that. And the bitch is wasting those last few days making her mom miserable arguing about money?

Hutch isn't taking it real well. Whenever we've had to deal with Lillian in the last couple of weeks, he's been so closed-off and quiet after that it's scary. Not that I blame him. Hearing only one rant about being cheated and how Hutch had to have done something to his mom to get her to ignore what a pair of disgusting perverts we were, I was about ready to plug her myself. I mean, shit, he's her _brother_. She's got no goddamn idea how lucky she's been to have him alive and around all her life. When I think of what I'd give if Nicky n'me could've had those years—

I know Hutch loves this place, but I don't think he's going to fight for it. Part of me wants him to. If there's any place that Hutch thinks of as "home" it's that old gray slate house with the sagging back porch and noisy water pump, and the hayfields and woods behind it running up to this bluff. He deserves to keep the place where he was happy as a kid. But fighting over it with his sister for God knows how long will wreck him. I know that, too.

And the more Lillian tries to push it with his mom, the more he's backing away.

Me, I don't give a damn about the money or any of it, except Hutch. All I'm gonna put my foot down over is that he's gotta stay until Mrs. H. is gone. She deserves to have her son with her 'til the end, and he's got the right to be there for her. After that, he can shit-can it all as far as I'm concerned. I might even get a kick out of seeing Lillian's face when he throws the money back at her.

We've managed just fine on our pensions so far, and we can keep doing it without that snotty bitch looking at us like we were something out of a garbage can.

"Hey, Starsk."

I've been thinking so hard I haven't noticed Hutch coming over. He folds himself carefully down beside me on the blanket, grunting a little as he settles. He smiles at me, a sad little smile that just kinda slips in and out, and strokes his fingers across my forehead.

"Stop worrying about it, buddy. Lillian and I will work something out before the lawyers get involved."

"The only thing I'm worried about is you and your ma having some good time together now, before it's too late. Everything else can go to hell."

His eyes close, and a great big breath whooshes out of him, almost like he's been punched in the gut. He leans into me and lets his head drop down on my shoulder.

I hold onto him for all I'm worth. He hasn't let me hold him enough through all this mess. He's tried to tough it out, tried to be strong for his mom, and not take it all out on Lillian. Today's the first time since we got here that we've just taken time for ourselves, and I'm kicking myself. We should have done this sooner. Hutch kinda gets deep down inside himself when he paints, and it lets him get a hold on the things that whirl around in his head and his heart before the cork blows.

After a long time, he lifts his head and hugs me back.

"Thank you."

"What for?"

"For being smart enough to know what's important, and tough enough to call me on it." His smile is a little wobbly, but it's the first real one I've seen in a long time.

He rolls over and stretches out, pulling his sketchbook over. He looks down at the page, and there's a look on his face that makes my heart flip. There's too much love and happiness and hope in it for just one little picture.

"It's not even close to good enough," he says, and hands the sketchbook over.

The picture is me, but not. In one way, this is the guy I see in the mirror: lines around my eyes, a little soft under the chin, plenty of curls still, but most of them gray. Sixty-five years old, and looking every day of it some mornings, even if a lotta the time I don't feel it. And somehow, magically, Hutch has got that in, too. The guy in the picture looks like he doesn't feel sixty-five, looks like he might feel about thirty, and drive a candy-apple red muscle car just because he can. Looks like he could work the streets all day and make love all night.

I feel a lump in my throat and have to swallow hard before I can say anything.

"When we get home, we need to get you to the optometrist, babe. I don't look like that no more."

Hutch looks down, his cheeks a little pink. "That's the way my heart sees you."

Now the lump is about the size of a basketball. "That's because you have a beautiful heart."

Suddenly Hutch's hands are all over me, pulling up my t-shirt, trying to get at the buttons on my shorts. He's nibbling on my neck and ears, and I can hear him muttering about how good I look and how much he loves me. Me, I'm lighting up like a firecracker. Hutch has always had magic hands, and I'm the bird he lets fly out from under the silk handkerchief.

I roll him over so I can get at his shirt. Run my hands over those big shoulders of his, still strong after all these years. He's grinning up at me with that loving laughter in his eyes that tells me I'm all he wants and needs.

Oh, yeah. Maybe I'm not thirty anymore, but I'm still ready for a good long ride with Hutch any day.

 

****

 

Starsky's asleep before he even gets himself completely untangled from me.

It's something that's crept up on him as we've gotten older: good sex puts him out like a light. A little nap, just fifteen minutes or so, and he'll bounce right back, but there's no more fooling around in the afterglow and maybe getting the engines revved for round two. It's something I miss, in the same way I miss being able to run in the mornings or read without glasses, and just like those things, I've had to accept that it's something that's moved on with age and won't come back.

I gently roll him onto his side, and snag one of the clean rags from my paint box. I get us both mopped up enough that we won't stick together, and then lift my hips a bit to slide the blanket a little to the side. I've never been fond of lying in the wet spot. A little tug is all it takes, and Starsky makes a soft "Huh?" noise, and settles back into my arms without ever waking up, his upper leg sliding over mine and his arm settling across my chest.

I prop my head up on my free hand, and look out across the lake. Superior is a deep and bone-freezingly cold lake—swimming is a test of fortitude even in high summer—but absolutely beautiful. The water is unbelievably clear, partly because few nutrients leach out of the granite that forms so much of the surrounding shore, partly because of the intense cold, and partly because there isn't much human pollution in it yet. From where we're lying, I can see a least a dozen different shades of blue in the water. The tint varies with the depth, from a very pale robin's egg close to the shore, to just about the exact color of Starsky's eyes out where the shelf drops off to nowhere. Add in the variations produced by alternating sun and cloud shadows, and I could probably paint this exact same spot every day for a year and never produce the same picture twice.

I don't think I'll be doing that, somehow. As long as Mom was still a going concern, I could hold onto the belief this was home, but any vague plans I had of trying to talk Starsky into retiring here have died a quiet death this past week. Mom may not have been thrilled with Starsky as my life partner—and I'm pretty sure she never even _thought_ about the two of us having sex—but she was an old-fashioned "proper" woman, and guests in her house were sacred. She always asked politely after Mrs. Starsky and the rest of the family, and never accepted an invitation unless Starsk was included, except for things both he and I would reasonably not want to attend. There was always a pamphlet from the Duluth synagogue in our room, and she never served any kind of pork while we were under her roof.

Considering that we don't keep kosher at home, I thought this sort of thing would amuse Starsky, but he took it completely seriously.

 _I was raised right, Hutch. She's bein' polite, so I'll be polite._

We never had the heart to tell her that lasagna is _treyf_.

My sister is an entirely different kettle of fish. You'd think that being of my generation, Lillian would be more open-minded. But the way she's acted these past couple of weeks, anyone would think Starsky and I have spent the past thirty-five years in and out of jail for public indecency, instead of living the unremarkable middle class lives of an average pair of cops. I always suspected Lillian was behaving herself only out of respect for Mom, but I never realized how much until now.

Even worse, she's taught that whole attitude to her kids. My nephews and niece are openly contemptuous and venomously rude. A couple of times this week I've been seriously tempted to punch out my older nephew Gordon, more on Starsky's behalf than my own. Jennifer is the worst: she's a snide poisonous little bitch, who flaunts her lack of respect for us, knowing full well neither of us will hit _her_ , even if we do lose it with her brothers.

I guess finding out about Mom's will was the last straw. The three grandkids got generous bequests, and Lillian got the house, but the residue of the estate was split between us, and I got the cottage. Or more precisely, Starsky and I got the cottage.

Mom's explanation—since Starsky and I had both been wounded in the line of duty we might need more funds for medical care as we got older—didn't cut any ice. Lillian was outraged and the kids took their cue from her without hesitation. There were a few minutes there when I really wished Starsk and I had been carrying. It was that bad.

And of course, the really stupid thing is that none of them like or want the cottage anyway. I don't think any of them have set foot here since we all came up for Dad's seventy-fifth birthday. Lillian certainly had to be dragged here from the time she was about twelve; I remember the fighting and sulking and door slamming all too clearly. But once she found out Starsky and I will inherit it, it's suddenly become a family tradition and a sacrosanct part of her childhood.

I've always loved the place, and looked forward to spending time here, as much as I loved spending time with Grandpa Ingmar. Sad to say, it's the one thing I truly missed when I moved to California. If it was just me—well, I'm retired, my pension is decent, and even without any money from the estate, I could afford to live in the cottage without any trouble for the rest of my life. A simple and quiet life, maybe, off the beaten track and without a lot of the modern conveniences of the city, but it would suit me just fine.

I've sometimes let myself entertain a little fantasy of me and Starsky living here, growing our own food in the garden back of the cottage, cutting firewood in the bush every spring, spending long winter days by the fire, cut off from civilization and content with it.

But it's not just me.

My mother was of sound mind when she made her will, and she's free to dispose of her property any way she likes. But if my sister does as she's threatening and goes to court, all the cottage will get me is a nightmare of legal bills and hassles that will eat up the money Mom left, and hurt Starsky in the long run. By the time some sleaze bag lawyer gets done dragging our relationship through the mud, this place I love will be tainted with so much anger and guilt and pain I'll never be able to live here again anyway.

And Starsky wouldn't want to stay here in any case. He's made for the city and the beach and the warmth of California, and as he's gotten older and more stiff and sore, that warmth has gotten more important each year. He wouldn't be happy in a place where the winter temperature regularly dips into the minus twenties, and the wind drives the snow off the lake for days on end.

This place has always been like that: beautiful in its seasons, but harsh. I think my family absorbed a lot of that, too. A granite bedrock will give you lots of support, but it can also keep you from going too deep. When the roots are wide but shallow, you tend to grip on so tightly that getting torn loose will kill you.

My mother is taking dying pretty well, much better than the rest of us, that's for damn sure. I've been trying to hide how panicked I am at the thought of losing her, trying to let her go as gracefully as she is in the going. Much as I love Starsky, the first part of my life I shared only with my sister. If Lillian and I could have time together with Mom to talk and laugh and remember the good things, I think it would make it easier for all of us. But we can't be in the same room for ten minutes before the sniping starts up. I can't do that to my mother—can't let her last sight of us be us arguing about her money, for God's sake, like ravens snapping over a piece of roadkill.

My head knows that a lot of it is Lillian's way of dealing with her own fear and grief. She can't yell at her mother for being selfish enough to die and leave her, so she's yelling at me for getting the cottage and having the gall to live with a man who loves me. But my heart—oh, my heart wants to let out some of my own fear and grief right back at her. If Lillian still knew me, if she understood what all these years of being a cop has made me capable of, she might watch her mouth a little more.

The reason I haven't let it out is because of Starsky. He's the one thing that's kept me going since we've been back here. He's a rock for me, just like he's been from day one. His strength holds me up so I can go to the hospice every day and talk with Mom calmly and lovingly. His sense of humor gives me the perspective I need to turn my back and walk away when my nephews sneer about old queens. His love keeps me going when I just want to crawl into bed and pull the covers over my head.

I take another look out across the lake, watching the sun-lit silver spangle of waves curl toward the shore below us. That one patch of blue out past the shallows really is the color of Starsky's eyes. This lake has depths to it nobody's ever explored. Its beauty sometimes takes your breath away like a punch to the heart and sometimes takes years of observation to notice, let alone understand and capture.

I glance over at the picture of Starsky I did this morning. He said I have a beautiful heart, but he's the one whose heart has been large enough and strong enough to keep me grounded all these years. He's the one who's made my life worth living, long before we became lovers and life partners. As beautiful as this land is, as much as my family heritage means to me, Starsky is the one who's been with me every day, through all the good and bad.

If I have to tear up my roots here, it will be painful, no doubt about it. But with Starsky I have deeper roots. I might wilt for a while, might need some time to build myself back up. But wherever he is, the ground under my feet will be home.

And like the lake, with all its depth and clarity and complexity, he'll be there.

And just that easily, my mind's made up. I'll have to talk it over with Starsk when he wakes up, but I've got a feeling he'll be okay with it, too. We'll keep the money—because Mom is right, sooner or later, one of us _will_ need it—but the land isn't worth the hassle, no matter how much it meant to me when I was young. But I'm not just handing it over to Lillian to dispose of any way she likes.

Tomorrow, I'll talk to Mom, and if she's agreeable, I'll make a couple of phone calls. I figure the Minnesota Nature Conservancy is going to get a pleasant surprise in a few weeks' time.


End file.
